Latvia's Diary
by Tearfulyandere
Summary: So far two chapters. will write as I feel like it. Latvia has a diary. This is set when Latvia still lived with Russia for the first chapter and just as he is leaving Russia for the second.
1. The Best and Worst day of my Life

It was easy for me, I think, at least, that's how it feels now. A light touch, a simple word, he's always so childish, so ready to accept and deny at the merest whim.

"Why do you like me?" He asks, I have to stop and think about that, a few seconds too long for his liking, he's turned his back on me, those cheeks puffing out ever so slightly as he holds his breath in a form of a miniature tantrum.

I have to wonder though, it's not that I do not like him, it's that it is so hard to explain. The mixture of the person he is. Kind, wonderful, loving, sweet, and then without a moments notice, he is hard and cold, mean to the point of cruelty, until I want to give up and run away crying from him if I dared.

If I dared. That is the point really isn't it? I dare not run from him, even when he lies there in his bed sleeping, dreaming of Liet, or of his sister Ukraine, never me, of course not. I'm not really worth his notice, or I wouldn't be if they were here... the other Baltics that is. They're not though are they? Here I mean. They're gone. It's only me now. Me alone in this house. Alone. Alone except for him that is.

Timidly I approach him. "M...Mr Russia? I... I... that is..." I can feel heat in my cheeks as I admit to this, but I have to get it out, or he will be in a mood for days with no reason to it.

"I do like you... b...because, when you are not being cruel... you... you are so kind to me."

He's been kind to me in times gone by. Offered me food, drink, housing, a life outside of what I could have gained elsewhere. I'm weak you see, too weak to really gain anything by being alone. He's told me so himself more than once. He alone has taken care of me for all these years when no one else would help me. He alone cares enough that I have company. Sometimes, I almost see him as a big brother of sorts. Not that I would call him that to his face of course. He'd either laugh and not take me seriously, or he'd take me too seriously and probably take offense. It is impossible to know which it will be ever.

He'll make jokes with me, sometimes at my expense, but he does not really see how they could hurt, and if I throw them back at him, he takes offense again, sometimes a punch to the stomach, or a backhand against the face, to make me cry out and fall back, fall back under his rules, his orders... when I do that, he'll be fine again, and sometimes offer me a kind word or a smile to make me feel better.

No apologies of course. Never those. Mr Russia doesn't do apologies. He only continues as he always has. Demanding that which I can not give him, wanting to know why, and then... then there are the times he is warm to me.

We lay in the bed and he hugs me, allowing me to cuddle up to that warmth, to feel his arms around me, sheltering me from the bitter winter cold, and the world outside that would swallow me up whole without anything to call my own. Or he'll look at me with that concerned expression on his face and ask me why I look so tired, or is everything OK. Those days... those days are the ones I live for, the ones that keep me going through his not so good moments.

Back to what I was referring to though, that time, of course, you understand my diary, that I could tell no one else of this time, and it is almost frightening to put it down onto paper, but... if I do not, if I leave it to be forgotten in the vestiges of time, perhaps some day I too will forget what happened, and I do not wish to forget that time. I do not wish to forget those feelings he aroused in me.

I'm rambling aren't I? I have a habit of doing that, especially when I am nervous, but... if I ramble here, perhaps I will be forgiven as no one else must be allowed to read these words, these thoughts, only me, for I already know, and surely it is not a sin to tell myself. To remind myself that this happened, even if he insists upon the idea that it did not.

It was evening at the time, he was sat at the computer, laughing at something, I don't know what, one of those infernal pictures he sometimes finds of himself doing something that he finds amusing, I think it's called fan-art? I don't care much for them myself, they have a tendency to paint me in a light that I do not wish to see myself portrayed. Either as a complete innocent who knows nothing, or worse as a man-eater who's only desire is to seduce whoever my chosen victim is meant to be. I'm not either of those... right? I'm just me.

I'm doing it again aren't I? Rambling, babbling on about things which can be of no interest to me in later times, I'll still feel this way then, still know these things already, they can not be forgotten after all.

Where was I? Yes... evening with him sat at the computer, laughing away, I know I went in there to maybe see what it was he was laughing at. He was still laughing even as he went to show me, a picture of me and him, He was in a strange position though, I know... I was apparently taking him, the innocent blushing virgin, myself portrayed as the sexual predator willing to stop at nothing in order to have my way with him. He was laughing at the very thought that I could do such things. I'm not sure why I did what I did next, partly to play along and partly to make him stop laughing at me, but... I grabbed his hair, I pulled his head backwards hard.

I'm pretty sure at that point, that it was only shock that stopped him from doing anything else as I claimed a kiss from him, and I'm very much afraid to admit that my more mischievous side got hold of me, I remember lowering my head to his ear, murmuring into it that it wasn't that hard to dominate him. To make him quiver with excitement.

I think it was my voice that brought him to his senses. The next thing I knew there were nails in my back, his other hand grasping my arm with that vice grip of his, the one that feels as though it could break my bones if he only chose to... I remember trembling then, staring at the ground, stammering my apologies, anything to make him let go.

"still so easy little Latvia?"

That was what really did it... the game was over now, the challenge was on. I lifted my head and met his eyes, not quivering for once, but straight backed, I played him at his own game... my hand went to his back, digging my own nails into the soft skin under his clothing. I learned my lesson though. I said nothing this time, even as I lowered my head to kiss at his throat, hearing a soft moan that almost undid me. He... he -liked- it! All that talk of being the big strong Russia, and he was enjoying this small country taking over from him. Perhaps it makes sense? After all, he can not enjoy having to be in charge all the time I suppose?

I bit at his throat, leaving an imprint of my teeth, receiving his weight into my arms as he began to slide off his chair. He's not a light man, I know this from full experience now, it was the best I could do to let him gently onto the floor. He had this look in his eyes, sort of glazed, I scratched at his arms and he moaned for me. The feeling from that, the power that I, the weakest of countries, could have on someone as powerful as that, well, that kind of rush you can only feel once in a century I am certain.

"I.. I am doing right.. ja?"

"Da..."

He barely seems to notice my slip into my own language, as I, unsure of myself, but at the same time eager to learn, continue to stroke his skin softly, softly, slowly applying more and more pressure as he seems to enjoy it.

It makes sense perhaps, that he would enjoy things a little rougher than others might, his entire life is violence in one way or another.

I slide my hand down to his trousers, unzipping them, watching his skin flush, my hand moves towards the most private of places, only to have his hand lift mine away warningly, the glazed look slowly fading from his eyes.

"I.. I understand..."

I continue my original plan, unsure of what to do next, lining his throat with kisses, biting down when he arches upwards, feeling a thrill with each moan I persuade him to make, causing that soft skin to vibrate.

He writhed under my touch, the sounds incoherent but making all the sense in the world to me, once more I ventured towards his length, this time meeting no resistance.

My fingers are too small, my hands don't really cover the full size of him, but I make do with initiative. There are no instructions to tell me how to continue as there are normally, just my mind and his movements which in a sense are instructions of themselves.

All the time I feel obliged to ask.

"I'm doing this right yes? I'm not going too far?"

"Da, da!"

He's definitely enjoying himself, my hand moves with swift touches, I long to take him into my mouth, to see how he tastes, but my body won't obey my internal command, he's enjoying this, if I begin to fail to please him, that could be my undoing.

I don't know how long I continued to touch him in this way, but eventually that word comes through, the one that says no more.

"Nyet."

I stop immediately, years of training coming to the foreground. My hand frozen in place not touching and not quite away from him either. I hurriedly do up his trousers, my head lowered.

"I... I did right?"

"...Da..."

The affirmative is not quite so affirmative this time... I fight the urge to plead with him that everything is fine, and then he bolts upwards into a sitting position, his eyes no longer glazed but clear, clear as the sky on a summers day.

"Get out."

I look at him in horror, did he really say what I think he did?

His voice is angry, his expression cold as he repeats himself louder.

"OUT!"

I rise up from my kneeling position on the floor. I run to my own room, curling up on my bed shivering. I hadn't thought it possible to feel that afraid... but it is.

How long I lay there, I don't know, but I do know when I finally felt brave enough to get up I was still alone. It was at least another half an hour before he walks into my room, his eyes cold now, his hand grips my hair pulling my head back to stare into them fully. I can't look away even though I long to.

His free hand grips my shoulder warningly, letting me know full well what he is capable of. This could be the end. He lowers his head to my ear, his voice softer than before, but no less menacing for that.

"Tell no one. This never happened."

"J.. ja..."

I respond quietly, but loud enough for him to hear obviously as he releases his grip, a softer light entering those violet eyes once more.

"Good. Good Latvia." He pats me on the head once and turns and leaves.

I am alone again, this never happened.

But it did... I can not forget. 


	2. Morning Lullaby

Diary entry.

I know. I have been remiss in writing in you yes? I realise that of course, but it is not because I think you judge me. I want you to know that. I need you to know that. I can't judge you. I can not even judge myself.

I'm still alone of course. Always will be I suppose. But at the same time, I am not.

That is why I have taken so long to write anything again. Nothing has really happened since that night. That fateful night I wrote before that I not forget what happened. Even now I dare not speak of it, dare not write of it again. As though to do so would be to be found out. For if he knew, if he knew I had written this... he would probably be mad.

Would not speak with me. I could not bare that.

Even now, he does not speak often. Does not deign to notice my presence save for those few moments we drink, even then it is the others he speaks of. America, Germany, England, any but myself of course. What use am I? I am already here... they are not. They are far away and out of his reach.

The other Baltics, not a word. I dare not speak of them. If I speak of Estonia, he pretends not to know who he is, if I speak of Lithuania... he only gets mad... I am not sure if he is upset because of the betrayal, or if he is mad because he will not return, or what. He does not speak to me of feelings. Why would he?

No. This is not why I am writing. I am writing because I have made a decision.

I have to write it here... to clear my mind once and for all, I dare not speak it aloud, for if I even begin to muse upon it, I will lose my clarity, I will lose my nerve.

I too, I have to leave.

It hurts to think of it. I know he will be sad, once I am no longer in the house to talk with, once he is alone with no one there... I dare not think too hard on how he will cope. On if he will shed tears for me as he once did for Lithuania and Estonia. I dare not think on that... nor do I dare let him know I am leaving. He will either try to stop me which would be bad, or just let me go which would be worse.

My throat hurts when I think of him hurting, for as much as the others all say I should be glad to go, glad to rid myself of that which is apparently so painful, so cold, still, I can not help but think of the times he has treated me well. Of the times that he has wrapped an arm around me and although he would never say it, never even think it, I know he loves me. In his own way, his own careless, childlike, cruel, petty way, I know he loves me. As much as I love him.

Not that I could even think of saying such things aloud to him. He would reject me before I could reject him. For I am certain now that is why he rejects all thoughts and words of love that he himself has not said. It is fear.

I have a secret my diary. I have a secret that is big enough to eat me alive if I let it. I know Russia is afraid. It... It frightens me to even write such a thing, to even think such a thing. I know though. I know he fears being alone, and I know he fears rejection and love... yes, love scares him too. I am certain of it.

How then, you might ask me, could you but speak, how could I leave him alone if he fears being alone? But diary, I have to do so because of this. If I stay. He will never trust my motives. The others too, they will assume he forces me to remain with him and not all of my pleading and speeches of the contrary would sway them. I tried once, with America... but he thought I was brainwashed, even spoke of my being too afraid to admit that I hated him and that I wanted to leave...

What then can I do? How can I persuade them otherwise if I were not to leave first? To live as they say I have to. To experience this freedom that they all speak of so highly. I admit, I do not want it... but I have to. If I do not take it... they will turn on him again, even further...

I have to leave, and I have to leave when he is not expecting it. Though it hurts, though I shiver not with cold but with the heartache that I can already feel.

Before I can return, I have to leave, have to prove that my return is my doing and only my doing. My own will. I have one. I do.

The house was silent. Lights all off save one, the one he was using to write in his diary with. Silently he closed the book, put it into a bag and turned off the final light.

He swallowed softly, no matter what he did. This had to be done. A deep breath, a last look at the house. He had to do that.

"What are you doing Latvia?"

A voice startled him out of his thoughts, turning to look at the man who had housed him for so long, that smile ever present, only one who knew him, who had lived with him and his moods could tell that it was too tight, too wide. That this was not a smile of happiness, but of suspicion and curiosity mixed intogether.

"Latvia? What are you doing? Where are you going? Is late Da? Have much to do tomorrow. Come back inside, get some sleep."

Even the tone of voice was wrong. Russia had to know. He had to realise what was going on. He was offering him last minute salvation. Allowing him to rethink his movements, but he couldnt' do it. This had to be done, Russia had to know this.

"I'm leaving. Lithuania and Estonia have gone... and I.. I have to go too. I have to attain freedom."

He stared at his former captor, not a trace of his usual stutter in his voice, calm, decided. However hard this was, he had to leave, there was no alternative now.

"If you leave. You can not return."

Was Russia being serious? If he left now... he could never return to this house? To the place that housed so many memories? He couldn't be. He just couldn't... but this was Russia. He rarely said such things unless he did. Even if this was a final last ditch effort to make him remain, now it was said, it would never be unsaid.

"Mr Russia... please... don't say such things... you might want me back someday..."

"Nyet. Traitor should not be allowed access to Russia's house. You said you would never leave. Promised to always stay. Now you are lying. Is traitor da?"

Oh... oh god... yes, he had promised such a thing, a long time ago, back when the other two Baltics had first left, back then he would have said anything to make the other smile again. Those tears had been terrible, the moping, the sulking, even through his periods of wanting to be left alone, Latvia had never run away, only stayed, trembling in the background, waiting to be noticed once more. Now though, now everything was different, surely Russia would understand? Right? Right?

"Mr Russia... I have to go..."

"Fine. Then go. Go have precious Freedom. I hope you learn your mistakes but will be too late Da? Can never come back. Go away and never return."

There was a sly look in Russia's face now, he thought he had won. He thought no matter what, that Latvia would never actually leave. Latvia knew though...

"Then... goodbye...Mr Russia."

It was with a heavy heart that he walked down that path, not bothering to wipe the tears away from his face as they trailed downwards leaving marks, marks that Russia himself had never left.

He did not dare look back. He did not want to see Russia crying, but he dreaded even more the thought that the larger country would still be smiling. Whatever the smile meant, it was still a smile... a smile that would break his heart even further.

Latvia left. 


End file.
